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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27688159">Acceleration Point</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobalamincosel/pseuds/cobalamincosel'>cobalamincosel</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>NCT (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Boxing, Boxer Mark Lee, Boys Kissing, Found Family, Friendship, Implied Jaehyun/Jeno, Injury, M/M, Minor Violence, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 02:03:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,360</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27688159</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobalamincosel/pseuds/cobalamincosel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark Lee, down on his luck and looking to leave behind his life of underground fighting, walks into Seo Gym hoping to find a place to train and get a shot at a lot of money, only to find that he stands to gain so much more than just that.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mark Lee/Suh Youngho | Johnny</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>100</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>373</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A few important notes here before you read: </p><p>1. I made up a lot stuff here, like the rules in underground fight clubs, and I don't go into specifics of how much Mark would win at these gigs. </p><p>2. Most amateur fights don't pay and they certainly don't pay this well. Please just let me have this hahahahaha</p><p> </p><p>I saw the Nonstop track video and lost my fucking mind, obsessed over the visuals in it. So this happened. :) I am admittedly nervous about this story but I'll never move forward unless I publish something, so this is me putting this out there. I hope you like it. </p><p>Thank you to my girls who gave me the necessary concrit I needed when I started this fic months and months and months ago. Thank you for the endless patience and the cheerleading when I was stumped, and thank you to Ain who beta-read this for me in its entirety. I love you all! </p><p>Please let me know if there's something that you feel I should have tagged that I failed to do. Thank you!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mark often wonders where his life would have taken him if he was the kind of person who really thought things out properly before he followed through with an action. As it stands, he’s had twenty-three years of mostly gut-feel and only hindsight to get him through the majority of his decisions. </p><p>He worries that his appearance might throw someone off. The stitches over his right eyebrow are still healing, and his broken nose has set for the most part, but all the swelling and the pain have left. He’s got his glasses on, his contact in his bag just in case this doesn’t pan out, and chances are, they won’t, considering that the way he looks right now doesn’t exactly inspire a lot of confidence.</p><p>As he pulls open the steel door and finds himself faced with a narrow, dark stairway, he ponders the very real possibility that this might end in disappointment or him being turned away because they’re too full or something, but he’s a little desperate, and he’d made it all the way to this part of town already, so he might as well bite the bullet really, and shoot his shot.</p><p>There’s a lone fluorescent light at the top of the stairs that lights Mark’s way as he climbs up. To his left, there are black and white posters of boxers he barely knows. Ali is frozen in time, his left fist making contact with someone whose name Mark can’t recall. </p><p>His heavy gym bag digs into his right shoulder so he adjusts the strap a little to change up the positioning before it throws him off balance. It makes him wince-- the bruise he’d sustained on his ribs after his last goddamn fight hasn’t healed properly yet, and it’s taking longer than usual for it to go from black to yellow. </p><p>Mark’s legs are starting to ache, and these stairs aren’t helping much. He’d walked nearly twenty blocks to get here so that he didn’t have to spend anything on the bus fare. It’s not like he’s got much planned for the day anyway. His next shift at the diner is still tomorrow yet.</p><p>When Mark reaches the landing, he finds that it leads to a short hallway, with a concrete floor and grimy windows above the wall to his left, through which sunlight filters in, dust dancing in his vision. The sound of a timer goes off loudly, and there’s chatter. Mark can hear chains rattling, and what is undoubtedly someone working the speedball. Heavy rap music fills the hallway as he makes his way through it. </p><p>The hallway ends with a blue door that gives easily under Mark's gentle push. He's hit with the strong scent of sweat and the smell of leather. It's not exactly pleasing, but it is significantly more bearable than the mass of body odor he'd been surrounded with when he'd be bare-knuckling his way through his fights in the circuit.</p><p>The Seo Gym is small by most clubs’ standards, but he finds it filled with a handful of people. A boy with blond hair has positioned himself in front of the mirror at the far end of the room doing side-swing cross-overs so fast, Mark can barely see the rope. In the ring, a girl with her hair in a high ponytail and a vicious expression on her face throws a jab into the boxing mitts being held up by a trainer with wild, white hair and too many earrings on for it to be legal. </p><p>There are other people paired off, training with their partners. One of them glances Mark’s way but then goes back to beating the fuck out of the heavy bag that looks like it’s being held together with duct tape.</p><p>To Mark's left is a wall that's covered in posters and flyers printed out from older fights, names jumping out to him from both local and international fights on tattered pink and yellow paper. Lockers, six across and six down, stand in front of the wall, some of the doors ajar, some others locked with small bolts. </p><p>It’s when he looks to the right that he finds what he’s looking for, a small office, and in it, the man he’d come to see: John “Johnny-cal” Seo, four-time middleweight boxing champion of the world, originally slated to represent the USA in the Olympics before a broken collarbone and shoulder injury fucked up all his chances of both the gold and the glory, as well as every other pro boxing opportunity left. </p><p>The man is visible through the glass which looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in probably months, and Mark’s struck by just how much more handsome Johnny is in person than he is in the videos Mark had watched of him before deciding to try his luck here. Mark steels himself and then walks forward to rap gently on the open door, making Johnny look up from the laptop he’s working on. </p><p>Mark clears his throat, tongue suddenly stuck to the roof of his mouth when he sees the eyebrow piercing glint in the fluorescent light overhead.<em> Jesus fucking Christ, get it together, </em>Mark thinks. </p><p>“Hi, I--Hello, Mister Seo,” Mark starts, holding onto the strap of his gym back to ground him. “My name is Mark Lee, a friend of Moon Taeil’s. I was wondering if you’d maybe have space to take me on in your gym.” </p><p>Johnny’s expression changes from confused to curious in a split-second.</p><p>“Moon Taeil?” Johnny says incredulously. “Holy shit, I haven’t heard that name in ages. Come in man, take a seat. And shut the door if you can. Yuta always blasts his fucking music too loud.” Johnny gestures with his hand to the monoblock chairs positioned in front of his desk.</p><p>Mark’s thighs groan when he lowers himself into the seat, but his shoulder creaks in gratitude. He hadn’t known if he’d be allowed in or not, but he figured it was worth the shot to bring whatever he had with him just in case he did. </p><p>“So, Mark Lee,” Johnny says, like he’s testing the name out in his mouth and committing it to memory. “How do you know my old trainer?”</p><p>"I fight in the underground circuit," Mark says, knowing full well that he isn't built like a fighter, and that that's surely what Johnny is thinking about at the moment, but the state of his face will give him away. "He hangs out there a lot, helps the other guys out. Treats us, mostly, as a makeshift medic. Sometimes he'll throw me a bone and give me some tips of his own."</p><p>“Underground circuit, huh?” Johnny says, his eyes bright, his eyes sliding over to the stitches on Mark’s eyebrow. “You know your way around a fight then. What brings you here?”</p><p>Mark clenches his fists in his lap. He doesn’t want to think about his last fight too much or the way his mother had cried while she held his hand in the emergency room. </p><p>“I’m a good fighter, sir,” Mark says, sitting up in the seat, jutting his chin out. “It’s what I’m good at--it always has been. After one of my fights, Taeil had pulled me aside to tell me that I was wasting away on the chump-change matches I was getting involved in. Told me I had too much talent to let it go to waste nearly killing myself every other week.”</p><p>Mark takes a breath.</p><p>“I think he’s got too much faith in me, but I figured I would try my luck anyway,” Mark says, looking Johnny square in the eye. “There’s a tournament coming up in a couple of months and that championship money would go a long, long way for my family and me.”</p><p>Mark wonders if Johnny’s pieced together that the real reason why he’s here is that it’s the only gym that Mark can afford to train in. Every other club’s fees would bleed him dry. </p><p>Johnny watches him carefully like he’s trying to read something on Mark’s face. </p><p>“We don’t train pro-fighters here, Mark,” Johnny says softly. “Too much ego, too much attitude, too much on the line for them. I’m sorry.” </p><p>Mark feels his gut twist, his fears coming to light as he feels his chances slipping through his fingers. </p><p>“I’m not a pro-fighter!” Mark says a little too loudly. “I--Sorry. I’m sorry. I just. I need a place to train, and maybe a trainer. Whether I win or not is beside the point right now, Mister Seo--”</p><p>“Please, call me Johnny,” Johnny says holding a hand up. “Mark, the people who train here aren’t training to win matches, although Yeri over there certainly fights like she is,” Johnny continues, nodding to the girl still in the boxing ring. “I just don’t know if training here is going to carry you to that championship you want.”</p><p>“Johnny, please,” Mark cuts in, and Johnny holds his gaze. “I’ve got no money, no ego, and nowhere else to go. I’ll listen, I’ll do everything. I just need someone to take a chance on me.” </p><p>Johnny runs his hand through his hair. “I don’t even know you,” he says. “But you’ve got this look in your eye that tells me that you’re not leaving here until you get a yes.” </p><p>“My teachers always told me I was headstrong,” Mark replies, shrugging before shoving his hands into his joggers. </p><p>“So why underground fighting?” Johnny throws back. “Why didn’t you wrestle your way into college then, if you’re so ‘headstrong’?”</p><p>Mark scuffs his beat-up Chuck Taylors on the concrete floor. </p><p>“Do I look like I can afford higher education to you, Johnny?” Mark asks. “Average grades, average life, medical bills, single mom, baby brother. There’s a lot riding on me being able to get food on the table.” </p><p>Mark glances at the laptop still open in between the two of them. Old Macbook Pro model, covered up in stickers. Papers stacked in neat piles all over the table. Some frames are faced away from Mark so he can’t see what’s in them. </p><p>Johnny leans back in his seat, some beat-up office chair that doesn’t look all that comfortable. The chair squeaks as Johnny reclines. He sees Johnny give him a once-over.</p><p>“Okay,” Johnny says finally. “Look, this place is not glamorous at all, and I don’t know what kind of fighter you are in the streets, but we don’t play by street rules here. I know it takes a certain kind of anger to last any sort of time out there, and if you bring that here, you’re out. Do you understand?” </p><p>Mark sits up in the chair, his heart beginning to race. </p><p>“I understand,” Mark says, excitedly, before his face falls. “I--I don’t actually know how much your fees are--”</p><p>“Do you have a job?” Johnny asks bluntly. </p><p>“I work the diner near my place every other night,” Mark says. “I’ve been trying to pick up more shifts but--”</p><p>“It’s alright,” Johnny says lightly. “How do you feel about maybe just sprucing up the place while you’re here, and that’ll serve as your training fee for the time being?” </p><p>Mark’s jaw drops. </p><p>“Th-that’s it?” Mark says before he can reel the words in. What the fuck? Nowhere else in this city, or in the states over, would he be able to find a boxing gym to train him for free.</p><p>“You say that’s it but wait until you’re faced with the bathroom, man,” Johnny laughs. “It’s no cakewalk but I’m willing to let you train here if you follow my rules and keep the place clean. My old guy ended up having to move away cos of family shit and I do the cleaning myself most days.” </p><p>Mark feels on the verge of tears. He doesn’t have the right words, but he tries anyway.</p><p>“Thank you,” Mark says, his voice thick. “Thank you, Johnny.”</p><p>“You can thank me by showing me what you’ve got, Mark,” Johnny says pleasantly. “I don’t mind it at all. My cousin comes here all the time for free, others pay what they can when they can, and others pay full. But like I said, you’re gonna have to temper your expectations here, man. This really isn’t a pro boxing gym.”</p><p>“It will be, once I score that championship,” Mark says, putting up a smile he hopes seems more confident than he feels right now under Johnny’s scrutiny.</p><p>“Hah! Cheeky,” Johnny says, laughing. “We’ll see about that.”</p><p>Johnny rises from his seat and makes his way to the door before glancing over his shoulder. “Looks like you brought all your gear. Do you wanna check the place out now? I can introduce you to the gang if you want.” </p><p>Mark feels his hands clam up a bit, but he’s not about to let any chance slip by so he nods, and heaves his bag over his shoulder to follow Johnny out of the small office. </p><p>“You can leave your bag here, or in the lockers, it’s up to you,” Johnny says, gesturing to one of the wooden benches near the water fountain. “Our lockers don’t have any fancy codes or anything so you’ll have to bring your own padlock if you wanna leave shit overnight, but it’s generally safe here. Everyone’s good, you don’t have to worry about shit getting stolen, which is probably more than what you can say about the places you’re used to, huh?” </p><p>Mark smiles sheepishly, thinking about how he only ever goes to his fights with a couple of bucks and a shirt to change into. </p><p>“I’ll wait for the lockers, if that’s cool,” Mark replies.</p><p>“Sure man, anything goes.” </p><p>The timer goes off again, three loud, short dings before Johnny leads Mark up on to the ring. The trainer sets his boxing mitts on the floor of the ring and holds onto the boxing glove of the girl who had been beating the shit out of the focus pads earlier. </p><p>“Yuta,” Johnny says, catching the trainer’s attention. “We’ve got fresh blood joining us.” </p><p>Yuta pulls off the Velcro from the girl’s black gloves, and then pulls the glove off her hand, repeating the motion for the other, before he turns his attention to them. Johnny’s leaning on the ropes that dip under his weight before he rights himself again and claps Mark on the back once. </p><p>“Nakamoto Yuta, this is Mark Lee,” Johnny says. Mark holds his hand out to shake Yuta’s hand, but Yuta seems to take to friendships like a fish takes to water, saying, “Hey, man,” and then pulling Mark in for a one-armed hug, sweat and all. Mark doesn’t mind. </p><p>The girl approaches, holding her hands out for Yuta before he untucks the hand wraps and starts to pull them off. </p><p>“Hey Mark,” she says. “I’m Kim Yerim.” </p><p>“Hey,” Mark says. This place is so, so different from what he expected, and what he’s used to. No one in the circuit’s ever this warm on the first meeting. </p><p>“We’ve got only four trainers here,” Johnny says. “Yuta’s one of them. Jaehyun’s the other, and Junmyeon’s on honeymoon with his husband right now so we won’t see him here for a while. Seulgi had to take care of something with her folks but she’ll be back next week.” </p><p>Johnny hops off the ring, and Mark follows suit. There’s a boy with rainbow hair at the speedball whose sole focus is on his hands flying in rhythmic succession that they walk by. </p><p>“That one’s Donghyuck,” Johnny says. “Probably around your age. He’s kind of a shit, but I have a feeling you’ll get along.” </p><p>The blond he’d seen skipping rope earlier is now on the ground doing crunches next to arguably the most beautiful man Mark has ever laid his eyes on. They’re both shirtless on black mats, but pause when they see Johnny approaching. </p><p>“Mark, this is Jeno, my cousin, and Jaehyun,” Johnny says. “Guys, Mark Lee. Be nice to him.” </p><p>“What the fuck, I’m always nice!” Jeno says, laughing. His eyes disappear as he smiles.</p><p>“I wasn’t talking about you,” Johnny fires back, making Jaehyun snort. </p><p>Jaehyun sits up and offers a fist out, Mark knocking his own knuckles against them. </p><p>“Welcome to hell,” Jaehyun jokes. </p><p>“Trust me, I know what hell looks like and this place really isn’t it,” Mark replies. </p><p>“Ooh,” Jaehyun says, voice teasing as if he’s been burned. Mark sees Jaehyun’s eyes flick over, no doubt assessing the stitches over his eyebrow. “Okay, okay, I see how it is, tough guy.” </p><p>Mark sees Johnny roll his eyes fondly and walk away, and Mark waves a quick goodbye to Jaehyun as he catches up to his tour guide. Johnny shows Mark around, gesturing every so often to the weights, introducing him to a couple of others whose names he tries to file away, touring once around the modestly sized open space. </p><p>When they reach the bathroom, Mark gets a whiff of what Johnny had warned him about. </p><p>“Listen, I know,” Johnny says, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t know what miracles my old guy used to use for this place but since I’ve had to do the cleaning myself, I’ve admittedly not done a very good job really like… deep cleaning anything. Sorry about that.” </p><p>Mark huffs out a laugh. </p><p>The bathroom isn’t as much of a mess as Johnny made it out to be, but he’s sure all his years of handling the cleaning at home and in the diner will make this job easy. He’ll just have to squirrel away some cash to buy the bleach Mark’s mom swears by, but it’s a small price to pay.</p><p>“So that’s the place,” Johnny says. “I’m gonna talk to Yuta, see if he’s willing to be paired off with you since you look somewhere about the featherweight division, and Yuta’s a lightweight himself. Do you wanna start today?” </p><p>Mark thinks about the ache in his ribs, in his thighs, willing himself to push past it. </p><p>“Sure, yeah, I’ll start today,” Mark says. </p><p>“Okay, you get changed, I’ll talk to Yuta,” Johnny says, backing up and turning on his heel. “See you out there!”</p><p>Mark exhales for what feels like the first time since he stepped foot in here. He feels a little in over his head, trying to absorb the fact that he’s gotten so much more than he’d bargained for. Taeil had told he’d be able to find some luck with Johnny, but Mark hadn’t allowed himself to believe it. </p><p>Mark sets his bag down and glances at himself in the grimy mirror. When he pulls his shirt off, he sees the nasty bruise where the last blow from Delaney had landed. He’s lost count of how long it’s been since then. He just counts the days by the color of his bruises, and this green-yellow tells him it’s been about a week or so. Still hurts a bit, but nothing he can’t handle. </p><p>He closes his eyes, grateful that his concussion hadn’t been too bad--just a couple of days of a headache, but he winces at the thought of how much the CT scan cost them.</p><p>It’s hard, knowing that this is what he does best, knowing that more than anything, fighting gives Mark the focus and the means to make things easier for him and his family. And he’s fucking good at it. He wonders what will become of him when he gets to actually train how to fight properly; wonders how he’ll feel when whatever it is Taeil saw in him actually comes out. </p><p>He changes quickly into his sweats and the black sleeveless t-shirt he’d plucked off from the top of the clean laundry pile, bending over to make sure his shoelaces are tied well enough that he doesn’t trip. </p><p>There’s a gaping sort of hole in his stomach where anxiety eats away at him, resting hollow and heavy at the same time while he pulls out the ratty yellowing hand wraps and worn boxing gloves that Taeil had gifted him. </p><p>“Sorry kid, these are the best I can do,” he’d said, before handing them over, when Mark had finally decided to go try and find Johnny. “I don’t ever wanna see you back in this joint. You’re too good for it.” </p><p>Mark glances at himself again in the mirror, takes a deep breath, and walks back out into the gym. </p><p>-</p><p>Yuta is an eager trainer, Mark finds really quickly, but also a brutal one. He makes Mark run laps around the gym, making him jog a solid twenty minutes before making him drop and do three sets of ten jumping jacks, ten push-ups, and ten squats. </p><p>It’s by the third set of push-ups that Mark’s arms start to give out. He feels every old bruise now, even when he shouldn’t. His biceps are screaming at him to stop and he hasn’t even gotten to the basic punches yet. He collapses, knees hard on the padded mat beneath him, sweat trickling down his forehead and into his eyes. </p><p>“Hey fresh blood, you’re still on the clock, hey,” Yuta says, crouching down to get on eye-level with Mark. It’s almost like a dare like Yuta is trying to see if he can break Mark this early. He feels a tinge of his old anger, annoyed with himself for not being able to push harder even if the workout has just begun. </p><p>Mark gets back in position, propping himself up on his hands and the tips of his feet, his core straining to keep his back straight, ass tucked in. </p><p>“Keep going, you’ve got this,” Yuta says, smiling slightly. </p><p>“You’re gonna kill the boy,” Johnny says from the water fountain, laughing. </p><p>“Nah,” Yuta says flippantly. “I’m gonna train the boy how to kill--hey! What the fuck!” </p><p>Johnny’s thrown a soggy towel at Yuta’s face, making him sputter and making Mark lose his count, collapsing on the mat again, breathless from laughter. </p><p>“Boxing isn’t about killing, you twat,” Johnny says, fake-sternly like he and Yuta have had this conversation before. He holds a hand out for Yuta to take, which Yuta does, springing up to stand before Johnny claps him on the back again. </p><p>“Gotcha, chief,” Yuta says, and Johnny tosses an eye-roll over his shoulder before walking back to his office. </p><p>Mark stands up, watching the retreating figure of Johnny just as Yuta catches Mark’s eye. </p><p>“He takes this stuff really seriously,” Yuta says, nodding towards Johnny’s office. “Even if he can’t do it much anymore. Man’s instincts don’t go away.” </p><p>“Yeah, I can imagine,” Mark says, before finally turning back to Yuta. “Okay. You can go back to kicking my ass, boss.” </p><p>Yuta laughs, throwing his head back. “I like you, kid.”</p><p>“I’m not a kid,” Mark retorts like it’s a knee-jerk reaction, quick and rough before he realizes he shouldn’t be talking back at his trainer. “S-sorry, I mean--”</p><p>Yuta waves it off. </p><p>“I know what it’s like to be angry about that,” Yuta says. “You must’ve heard it a lot on the circuit, huh?”</p><p>Mark gets back into position, ready to squat, before he sighs and says, “You have no fucking idea.” </p><p>Yuta regards him, and Mark feels something shift an inch to the left. </p><p>“I’ll drop the ‘kid’ then,” Yuta says, grinning. “But you’re Markie from now on, got it?” </p><p>Markie. It makes Mark feel like he’s been given something special, even if it feels a little juvenile. A nickname in these places means something. </p><p>“Got it,” Mark says, and takes a breath, before resuming his exercise.</p><p>- </p><p>He’s exhausted by the time Yuta is done with him, and the sun’s setting when he manages to get himself under the spray of the water. Jeno and Jaehyun are in the showers next to his, and they’re talking loudly about what they’re planning to do for dinner. Mark lets their voices bounce off the tiles and the blessedly hot water wash over him as his muscles begin to relax. </p><p>“Yo, new blood,” Jaehyun calls out. “You got any plans tonight? We’re gonna go grab some chicken wings and a Buddha Bowl at Crisp. You wanna come with?”</p><p>Crisp. Mark can’t afford that, not right now. He swallows and thinks about the dinner his mom probably prepared already. “I’m good! Thanks, man, maybe next time.” </p><p>Mark’s quiet for the most part, his body aching but in a way that’s more pleasant than he expected. When he steps out of the shower with his towel around his hips, Jeno’s already dressed head to toe in a black Adidas tracksuit, and Jaehyun is pulling his jeans on. Both of them are built like they don’t have any body fat. Their muscles are defined, toned, bulkier than Mark’s. Definitely not his weight class. Mark had watched them training earlier, finding that Jeno is better at speed than power, where Jaehyun is the opposite. </p><p>“So what’s this fight you’re training for, Mark? Is it the Golden Gloves?” Jaehyun asks, sitting down on the bench to pull a black sock on. </p><p>“Uh, no, no, nothing prestigious like that, man,” Mark says, taking his change of clothes out of his gym bag. “It’s one of those play for money kind of things. If I beat everyone out, I stand to win three thousand dollars.” </p><p>“I get that,” Jeno says, whistling and pulling his gym bag’s strap over his shoulder. “Hey, this place is great. Johnny doesn’t like, <em>train</em> train anymore but his mind’s still really fucking sharp and he can’t resist giving his two cents even if he keeps acting like he’s an old foggy cos of his shoulder. You’re gonna win.” </p><p>“Yeah, and you’ve got Yuta,” Jaehyun says. “He’s a hardass, which I’m sure you’re fully aware of now, but that dude used to kick ass and take names back when he still lived in Osaka.” </p><p>“Why’d he move here, then?” Mark asks, wondering if he’s even allowed to know this information about the trainer he’d only just met earlier in the day. </p><p>“Oh, ask Yuta yourself,” Jaehyun replies, rolling his eyes. “He loves telling the story of how he moved here for love.” </p><p>“Hahaha, okay, that’s cool,” Mark replies. </p><p>“Anyway, we’re off,” Jeno says, taking Jaehyun’s hand, which Mark double-takes at, before feeling warmth spread through his limbs. Mark hadn’t even gotten the vibe, but he’s realizing that Seo Gym’s full of surprises. </p><p>“See you guys,” Mark says, watching them walk out of the bathroom hand in hand, Jaehyun’s free one waving overhead. </p><p>He finishes getting dressed and looks at himself closely in the mirror. He needs to get his stitches taken out now that he’s done with the antibiotics and the skin looks pink and dry where it had been red and raw. He sends a quick text out to his mom that he’s gonna be home soon, and exits the locker room.</p><p>Johnny’s still sitting in his office, and Mark crosses the expanse of the gym to get there, tapping on the glass lightly. </p><p>“Yo, how’d today go for you?” Johnny asks warmly, and Mark spots the dimple there before he clears his throat. </p><p>“It was really, really good, man, thank you, thank you for real,” Mark says, gripping tight on the strap of his bag again. “Yuta gave me a run for my money. And everyone’s really, really nice. I’m like, not used to it, haha.” </p><p>“I can imagine that the company here is better than having to avert your eyes in parking lots and basements,” Johnny laughs. “No matter how good the pay was. But like I said, it’s all good.”</p><p>“I’ll come by in the morning to start really like, deep-cleaning the place since my shift doesn’t start til the evening,” Mark says. “I’ll bring my own bleach and shit, I just need the mop and the brushes that you showed me. Thanks again for this, Johnny. I really appreciate it.”</p><p>Johnny waves his hand and shakes his head. </p><p>“You met a couple of the others, didn’t you? A lot of them pay full price, and some even a little more, and they seem happy to,” Johnny says. “Covers pretty much all the stuff that needs to be paid for here like the utilities and what I pay the guys. Everything else comes from my side hustle.” </p><p>“Your side hustle?” Mark asks, leaning on the doorframe. </p><p>“Copywriter,” Johnny says, nodding at his laptop screen. “I get to work remotely, and it pays okay enough, all things considered. It helps that I own this place and that I live upstairs. It's the smartest thing I did with my prize money from my heyday, I guess. I mean, that and some stocks.” </p><p>Mark wishes that he had his life figured out the way Johnny seems to. He wishes that he had the option to buy their place and invest in some stocks, but right now he’s been living paycheck to paycheck. His mom’s job at the bank is steady and reliable, but it’s only just enough to get them by. </p><p>“That’s cool though, like, all of it,” Mark says, rubbing the back of his neck. </p><p>“Thanks, I think so, too,” Johnny replies. “Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? The gym will be open so you can just slip right in when you’re gonna start like, cleaning and all. If there’s anything you need, just holler so I can come down and help you out with whatever, okay?” </p><p>“Ah, yeah, that’s okay, I’ll be okay,” Mark says. “I’ll uh, head out now. Bye, Johnny.” </p><p>“See you, man,” Johnny says, turning back to his laptop just as Mark turns his back to him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/johnyumark/status/1330971766613630976">twitter.</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mark slips into his new life as a trainee at Seo Gym, and gets to know the man himself better than he'd expected.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A lil more Johnmark conversation, a lil more action please</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mark’s life takes on a new color even before he realizes that it’s happening, the weeks passing by in a blur. </p><p>He wakes up early, has breakfast with his mother, brings Chenle to school, and makes his way over on foot to the Seo Gym hours before anyone else usually comes by. The gym will always smell like musk no matter what he does, but he’s good about staying true to his word and keeping the place spotless for Johnny and the rest of their regulars. </p><p>There’s a cabinet that he takes for himself in the locker rooms, the sturdiest one in the row, and stuffs his gym bag in there, bringing his own padlock to keep things safe, not that there’s anyone who’d be interested in robbing him of his belongings. He hopes. </p><p>Cleaning the place is methodical for him. It gives him a sense of peace, order, a way to go through the day knowing he’s ticked off one good thing that needed to get done for himself. He makes it part of his training, and he realizes that that’s very fake Karate Kid of him, but he can’t help it when he’s mopping the floors and getting down on his knees to make sure he hasn’t missed a spot on it. </p><p>It’s the principle of the thing, he surmises. </p><p>Sometimes, Johnny will make his way down from the floor above, taking the spiral steps into the gym wearing nothing but his joggers and a pair of slides, two mugs of coffee in his hands while Mark’s rubbing down the punching bags with his own diluted cleaning solution. </p><p>Johnny will head into the office, clap Mark on the back, and offer the second mug to him. </p><p>It’s a nice little routine, even if it doesn’t happen every day. </p><p>It’s storming outside when it happens again, Johnny coming down in this massive green hoodie and shorts, a blue and a yellow mug in each hand just as Mark finishes wiping down the speed bags. </p><p>“Hey, Markie,” Johnny says in greeting, holding the blue mug out for Mark to take. “Did you honestly walk all the way here again or did your sweat glands break? You’re drenched, dude.” </p><p>Mark shivers a bit, knowing full well that his hair’s still in the process of drying. Mark’s lucky he’d kept most of his clothes in the locker overnight, since he’d been 5 blocks away before the rain had come pouring in and he’d had to leg it all the way to the gym.  </p><p>“I always walk here, man,” Mark says, wiping the sweat from his brow and running his fingers through his wet hair. Johnny tsks, and hands him the mug, and it’s relief for Mark’s hands, the warmth seeping through the porcelain. Mark’s only ever known shitty fast food coffee, so hot he’s pretty sure he’s burned himself once or twice enough to file a fucking lawsuit, but this stuff, whatever bougie shit Johnny drinks and offers to him on the regular, is nice. Soothing. Probably very expensive. “It’s cool. I’m fine.”</p><p>There’s a tiny, tiny frown between Johnny’s eyebrows, just there for a second before it smoothes itself out. </p><p>“You’re gonna get yourself sick, Mark Lee,” Johnny says, walking over to the bench near the post outside his office. “If you won’t listen to me, then at least I can count on Yuta kicking your ass for putting yourself at risk.” </p><p>Mark looks down at his coffee, unaccustomed to having someone express concern over him that isn’t his mom, or Taeil’s disapproving worry. </p><p>“I take care of myself fine,” Mark says. “I’ve been eating better, too. Like I said, I’ll do anything you guys tell me to when it comes to training.” </p><p>Johnny sucks his teeth, and takes a sip of his coffee. </p><p>“Good on your word,” Johnny says. “I like that.” </p><p>Something about what Johnny says jogs Mark’s memory, a mess of his father’s “I promise I’ll be home soon,” and Mark’s feeling of being let down by people all his life. </p><p>“I don’t have anything else but these and my words,” Mark says, looking at his hands. “My ex-boyfriend used to tell me that, too, that I was good at following through on stuff and that he liked that. It’s really all I’ve got.” </p><p>Johnny watches Mark carefully, his eyes roaming Mark’s face. </p><p>It takes Mark approximately two seconds to realize that he’s just come out to Johnny, and his hands turn clammy, his body ready to brace against a fight, but the old feeling of having to be on guard doesn’t seem to stir, not when there isn’t a single trace of disgust or disdain on Johnny’s face at the drop of this information. It’s more<em> curiosity</em> that Mark reads. </p><p>“It’s good to follow through on things. You do that a lot in boxing, too. Every movement is a commitment to make another one. You don’t just throw a jab out and hope for the best, you’re going jab, jab, uppercut,” Johnny says, mimicking the moves. “All while you’re blocking your face and your side.” </p><p>Johnny’s right hand flies to his left shoulder, a small wince of pain before Johnny is sighing under his breath. </p><p>“How bad is it?” Mark finds himself asking, unable to reel the words back in, and he regrets it the moment they fall out of his mouth like an anchor in water. </p><p>But Johnny just looks up at him pleasantly, and smiles. </p><p>“When you fuck up your rotator cuff the way I did, you pay for it for life, dude,” Johnny says, massaging his shoulder. “I tore what the doctors call the ‘supraspinatus,’' Johnny says, holding his fingers up to air-quote around the word. “And some shit called the ‘bursa’ gets inflamed when I move it too suddenly, so. Y’know. I deal.” </p><p>Mark settles on the bench next to Johnny, taking another sip of coffee before resting his elbows on his knees, holding the mug in one hand, flexing the fingers of his other, noting the changes on it, remembering how many times he’d split the skin there, how many times he’d come close to breaking something, really breaking something while fighting. </p><p>Taeil used to marvel at it, how Mark’s blind rage had been both his fueling power, and also his biggest handicap. </p><p>“‘How the fuck are you still standing, Wolverine?’” Mark says. “That’s what Taeil used to ask me.”</p><p>“No shit?” Johnny says, turning to Mark and laughing. “How long were you in the circuit for?”</p><p>“In and out a couple of years,” Mark says. </p><p>“And you never broke a wrist, nothing?” Johnny asks incredulously. </p><p>Mark remembers flashes. Swollen eyelids and nearly losing a tooth, his abdomen taking blow after blow, knuckles bruised but never broken. The worst of it was the last fight, the concussion. </p><p>“Nothing major,” Mark says, making a fist. “Taeil could never understand it, and I never liked thinking too hard about it, either. It was my last fight that legit scared me. It scared Taeil, too. I’m just lucky, I guess.”</p><p>Johnny whistles, low and long. </p><p>“I sort of get it now, you know,” Johnny says, crossing one leg delicately over the other, resting one elbow on his thigh. His shorts ride up, but Mark forces his eyes up to meet Johnny’s. “I get why he wanted you to get out of there, find a way to sharpen it.”</p><p>Mark’s really starting to think that these people are pulling his leg. </p><p>“I don’t know what either of you mean, but I’m not about to bite the hand that feeds here,” Mark says, laughing a little. “I’m not anything special. I’m just an angry kid who grew up to be an angry adult and this is, unfortunately, what I’m very good at.” </p><p>“You have an instinct that not many other fighters have come naturally for them,” Johnny says. “I see myself in you.”</p><p>Mark quickly averts his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek because that was meant to be a touching moment, something big and monumental, like those movies where the wiser seasoned pro imparts wisdom on the younger, fresh rookie, but instead Mark’s stupid fucking twenty-three year old gremlin brain is going, “Well I can see you in me, too,” like a horny, useless gay. </p><p>He clears his throat, pushes the source of his traitorous inner voice back into the sewers, and pays more attention. Johnny doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss, thank fuck, since he continues talking. </p><p>“That luck? That’s all you, whatever gut feel you have, whatever it is that goes through your mind 99% of the time,” Johnny says. “What you’re doing here is learning how to use it. You still have 1% that needs work, and it’s always gonna need work.” </p><p>“Lucky I’m here then,” Mark says, and finishes off his coffee. </p><p>Johnny laughs. “Alright, I’ll chalk that one up to luck then, since you’re so insistent.” </p><p>-</p><p>Mark finds that his focus has sharpened in ways that he wouldn’t have managed to adopt if he hadn’t taken Taeil’s advice about coming here and finding Seo Gym. He’ll step into the gym and Yuta will bound over to him to mess Mark’s hair up and then tell him to do laps around the perimeter of the open space. </p><p>He gets stronger, his core holding out and allowing him to plank for minutes at a time when thirty seconds used to be impossible for him. He’ll go twelve rounds against the others in the gym, and then later, against Yuta himself, a small crowd forming around the ring when they do. </p><p>He learns how to manage his breathing, taking more controlled breaths as he pivots on the ball of his feet, learns how to dance in the ring and use his weight to his advantage. Yuta teaches him how to strike hard, how to be light on his feet, how to read his opponent from the way they glance off to the side, to the way they hold their gloves up by their face to protect themselves. </p><p>Mark feels muscle build in places that had relied purely on adrenaline to get him through, and his knuckles break skin less and less now that he’s adjusted his stance and the way he throws his punches, landing square in the center of Yuta’s training pads. </p><p>“Hands up, Mark, protect your face,” Yuta shouts when Mark drops his guard. </p><p>“Pivot, pivot,” Johnny commands from the side of the ring, arms braced over the top ropes while he watches intently. “Don’t let him back you into a corner like that, Mark!” </p><p>“Jab, straight, upper, straight, hook!” </p><p>Mark’s arms are about to give out, but he’s got three minutes on the clock and he’s not about to throw in the towel just yet. </p><p>Yuta pushes him harder and harder, and Mark feels every burn in his muscles, including the ones he didn’t know existed. Fingers relaxed in his gloves as his fists make contact over and over and over again on the training pads while Yuta shouts his combinations for Mark to follow. </p><p>Right glove up to his face, left glove striking the leather in a jab and then following through with a straight punch before Mark’s ducking with his left elbow to protect his torso from the next strike. </p><p>Yuta makes Mark move faster to the point where Mark can’t even think, and then Mark realizes that it’s the same combo over and over again. Yuta’s pushing his stamina, and he’s starting to flag. He keeps going through the movements, his breathing only just managing to keep up, until the loud timer goes off, the sharp noise cutting through the entire space. </p><p>Mark gasps for air, bending over with his gloved hands on his knees, and he feels like he’s on the verge of passing out when Yuta comes over quickly with a bottle of Gatorade already open, and a towel out so he can wipe down Mark’s arms and<strong> shake</strong> them to get the circulation going again. </p><p>There’s a whistle from behind him, and Mark whips his head around to see Johnny against the ropes again, clapping. </p><p>“Didn’t think we’d have our own little Sugar Ray Leonard here but Mark’s just been one-upping himself at every turn,” Johnny says to some of the students behind him. There’s a proud sort of glint in his eyes, and Mark allows himself to puff up a little with pride at the praise. </p><p>Sweat beads over his eyebrow, nearly falling into his eye before he blinks it away and Yuta goes over his head with the towel.</p><p>“What do you say, boss? Think he’s got a shot at the money?” Yuta calls out, clearly pleased with Mark’s performance. </p><p>Johnny shoots Mark a quick smile, and a lingering look that Mark can’t read, though Johnny shutters his expression as soon as it comes. </p><p>“Seo Gym’s gonna get its first prize-fighter, I think,” Johnny says. </p><p>It only occurs to Mark then how much he needed to hear it, that the work he’s put into his training and his body for the last five and a half weeks have amounted to something that looks decent enough to stand up against other more seasoned fighters. </p><p>Johnny leaves, then, just as Donghyuck climbs into the ring, hopping from one foot to the other. Mark watches in amusement as Donghyuck gasses himself up, getting ready to spar with Mark. </p><p>“Yo, yo, yo, let’s get it, Canada,” Donghyuck says through his mouth guard, punching his gloves together while he twists his neck side to side. </p><p>“This dude is so fucking full of hot air sometimes, but man, does his footwork make me wanna cry,” Yuta mutters while tipping the water bottle into Mark’s mouth. Donghyuck trains under Seulgi, and she’s ruthless in a way that cuts through Yuta’s style of teaching, but they all get along well. “Anyway, kick his ass for me, okay?”</p><p>Mark swallows, but nearly chokes on the water from the laugh that threatens to gurgle up his throat. </p><p>“Gotcha, boss,” Mark says, just as Yuta puts the padded helmet over his head. </p><p>Seulgi gets Donghyuck’s helmet over his head, and the two of them meet in the center of the ring. </p><p>Mark likes Donghyuck, who oscillates between being bubbly with energy, and really quiet and thoughtful, depending on his mood. They’ve hung out a couple of times outside of the gym, and once in a while, Donghyuck likes to offer Mark rides home when the family car is sent over with the driver. He’s a good friend. Quick on picking up things that Mark’s sure other people would have missed. </p><p>He’s also the only one in the gym who’s really given him a hard time. Their last sparring session had gone all twelve rounds despite Mark having been ready to throw the towel in on the eighth. Donghyuck has a set of lungs on him that serve a greater purpose than just him belting out the longest, cleanest notes in the choir he sings with on Sundays. </p><p>“I want a good, clean fight from the both of you,” Yuta says, playing referee. “Nothing below the belt, got it?” </p><p>“Got it,” Donghyuck says at the same time Mark goes, “Yes, boss.” </p><p>The timer goes off, ringing thrice to signal the start, and the fight begins. </p><p>Neither of them are a Southpaw, but Johnny had told them that it was a good skill to practice, and Donghyuck takes to instruction like he was made for this, so Mark constantly has to have his guard up when he’s in the ring with Lee Donghyuck. </p><p>They dance around each other, Mark’s footing even, steady as he swings around, before he steps forward once, again, and goes for the first jab which Donghyuck dodges easily, pulling his head back with ample space between Mark’s glove and his face. He counters quickly, throwing a jab of his own, but it’s an easy block with Mark’s right hand up over his cheek. </p><p>“Arms tucked into your side, Markie,” Yuta calls out, and Mark makes the necessary adjustment, bringing his elbows in closer, keeping his head down. He throws another jab twice, and then follows through with a right hook, and his glove manages to make contact with Donghyuck’s helmet to resounding applause from the gym that’s come to a standstill now that there’s a legit fight in the ring. </p><p>Mark controls his breathing, tries to watch Donghyuck’s face, and knows the moment the next strike is going to come, Donghyuck pushing in closer and closer, a straight then upper left then a hook which finally lands, knocking Mark’s helmet askew. Mark knows he needs to move faster, knows that he needs to push more, so he clears his head. Draws in what he remembers from the circuit, overlays it with the training he’s done all month and a half, and dispels from his mind the knowledge that Donghyuck is his friend. </p><p>Adrenaline courses through him as he takes two steps to the left, one step forward and goes in with a jab-straight-straight-upper right that Donghyuck catches with his chin, knocking Donghyuck back against the ropes, staggering to get upright again. </p><p>There’s a round of “ooooohs” that ripples through the crowd, and a moment of silence where Mark thinks that Donghyuck is gonna tap out, but then his opponent gets back up, mischievous glint in his eye. </p><p>There’s still thirty seconds on the clock, but instead of going in for the kill, the both of them get into defensive positions, Mark throwing a weak jab that gets knocked out of the way immediately like his punch was nothing more than an annoying fly. </p><p>Mark smiles beneath the padding. Donghyuck is pissed, but the good kind—the kind that gets him fired up. The kind that gets them to twelve rounds and a draw. The kind that Mark needs if he wants to stand a chance in his actual fight in two weeks. </p><p>The timer rings out and they both knock gloves before stepping into their respective corners. The helmets come off, and they lock eyes from across the ring, a slow smirk blooming on Donghyuck’s face while Yuta shakes Mark’s arms out and gives him water. Seulgi is crouched next to Donghyuck, gesticulating wildly and telling him his points for improvement.</p><p>“You’re better today,” Yuta says, casting a glance over his shoulder. “Focused.” </p><p>“Thanks, boss,” Mark says, squeezing his fingers inside his glove. “Can you readjust this one?” Mark holds his right arm up, and Yuta fixes up the laces, pulls on them tighter, secures them in place. </p><p>“He’s going to bring the left hand out here. Be ready for it.”</p><p>“Always am, chief,” Mark says before Yuta slips Mark’s mouth guard back in. “Let’s go.” </p><p>Mark rises from the stool, stalks back into the center of the ring, light, quick steps, bouncing in time with Donghyuck. </p><p>The alarm goes off, and they begin another round. </p><p>-</p><p>“Mom, I’m home,” Mark calls out, slinging his keys onto the hook by the door. </p><p>“In the kitchen, honey,” his mom replies, and Mark’s hit with the smell of kkori gomtang, an old favorite, the recipe from Mark’s grandmother. </p><p>Mark’s exhausted from the day’s training, but he’s feeling good about the coming match. He toes his sneakers off and makes his way into the kitchen so he can press a quick kiss to his mother’s cheek, before he’s yelling, “Lele!” and his baby brother comes barreling out of his room. </p><p>“Hey, squirt,” Mark says, crouching down to pick Chenle up. “How was school today?” </p><p>“Boring.You should just teach me instead,” Chenle says like he’s long-suffering. Mark has no idea where he gets it from, but Chenle has a spitfire attitude that leaves both Mark and his mom winded. </p><p>“I don’t have time to teach you, Lele,” Mark laughs. “Besides, I’m not trained to be a teacher.”</p><p>“Teach me pow pow instead then,” Chenle says, punching Mark in the shoulder twice, making Mark cry out dramatically. </p><p>Mark’s mother purses her lips, and sighs. “No, none of that here, Lele,” she says sternly, and Mark can do nothing but grin at her sheepishly. </p><p>Mark sets Chenle down on his seat, and brings out the table mats, the utensils, the drinking glasses just as his mother sets the steaming pot of oxtail stew on the wooden pot holder in the middle of their round dining table. </p><p>They all bow their heads quietly to say their prayers, and then Mark serves Chenle his rice and a bowl of the soup. </p><p>Mark doesn’t expect his mother to ask about his training or the coming fight. She hates talking about it, but she clears her throat halfway through dinner and asks, “So, how are things with your training, honey? You seem to be bulking up a little.” </p><p>Mark averts his gaze, unsure if she really wants to hear this, but it’s more gentle an approach than any of the other times she and him have fought over his decision to keep fighting if it meant his safety and his life. </p><p>“It’s good, mom,” Mark says, taking a sip of the savory broth. “The people at the gym are really nice. My trainer’s a handful. I think you’d like him, honestly. His name’s Yuta and he kicks my ass every time I’m there. You guys have that in common.” </p><p>Mark’s mother rolls her eyes and scoffs. “As you deserve, Minhyung,” she says, her chopsticks clattering as she picks up some rice with it. “When is your fight?” </p><p>Mark wonders what’s come over her. Maybe it’s the lack of bruises on his face since he’s joined the Seo gym. Maybe it’s the fact that Mark’s admittedly been sleeping better, too tired from training to let stress and insomnia get the better of him. </p><p>“In two weeks,” Mark replies.</p><p>She nods. “And are you ready?” </p><p>Mark hears what she doesn’t ask. Are you going to come out of it concussed again? Am I going to be rushing you to the emergency room again? Do I have to fear that your heart is going to stop again?</p><p>“Mr. Seo thinks I am,” Mark says. “I think I am.” </p><p>“And what authority does Mr. Seo have to make that call?” his mother asks, and even if the tone of her voice is light, pleasant, Mark still hears the undercurrent of tension here. Mark knows that she’s afraid for him. She’s always afraid for him, and it translates into this muted anger at the fact that she has no control over what Mark does, despite his many reassurances that he’ll be okay. </p><p>“I can’t have you getting yourself beaten up every week for money, Minhyung!” she had cried while Mark had drifted in and out of consciousness, the night of his last fight. “What good are you to me dead!” </p><p>They’d long since made their peace, and after Mark had promised her that he was leaving the underground circuit, she seemed to have come to terms with it better than he’d expected, but this is familiar in its precariousness. </p><p>“Johnny’s the best of the best,” Mark says lightly. “He runs a tight ship, even if I’m the only one slated to go pro from his gym. He was a pro, once. He knows what he’s doing, and unless you’ve forgotten, <em>mother,</em>” Mark says, teasing. “I was always a good student.” </p><p>“Untrue,” his mom replies, but the fond smile is back on her face. “I distinctly remember having to get called in for your… opinions in class.” </p><p>“It isn’t my fault Mr. Jenkins was a fu—freaking bigot,” Mark says while his mother shoots him a look, then glances at Chenle who clearly doesn't give a shit about what they’re talking about. </p><p>“Yah, Minghyung-ah,” his mother says, leaning in closer to ruffle his hair like he’s thirteen and not twenty-three. “You and your temper, honestly.” </p><p>“Mmm, wonder who I get it from,” Mark says, his soup dribbling from his mouth when she kicks him under the table. “Hey!” </p><p>His relationship with his mother isn’t perfect, and her relationship with his fighting leaves a lot to be desired, but they manage in their day to day. Chenle gets to go to school, food stays on the table, the heating comes on, electricity doesn’t run out. </p><p>There are many things that got thrown into the shredder when Mark’s father walked out on all of them, but Mark has fought tooth and nail to make sure that they never went under. </p><p>Later, when Mark’s thrown his clothes into the washer and he reclines on the couch with his laptop open, several tabs loaded of the contemporary boxers so he can study their moves, his mother reaches down to press a kiss to the crown of his head. </p><p>“I don’t like you fighting, but I know it’s what you love, honey,” his mother says. “I don’t know who these people are that you train with but send a word of thanks out to them for me, will you? I haven’t seen you look this happy in years.” </p><p>Mark pauses then, and turns to look up at mom and the soft expression on her face before she bids him goodnight. </p><p>He hadn’t unpacked it yet—he’s been too busy—but she’s right, now that he’s taking a good, long hard look at himself. He<em> is </em>happy, content to lace his shoes up and get back in the ring with Yuta, content to come in early and have Johnny bring down a mug of coffee for him, content to have Yeri judge him for his taste in music while she sends him her Spotify playlists based on <em>vibes.</em> </p><p>He’s found a home for himself when he didn’t even know he needed one. </p><p>It’s a nice realization to make, and a lot of it comes from the warmth that Johnny had extended to him the day that Mark had walked in with no cash and a belly full of hope. </p><p>Mark finds himself keying in “Johnny Seo” in the YouTube search bar, looking for interviews instead of his fights. He pulls one up from a year before his injury. Johnny’s dressed in a suit, and it’s a press conference before the Velazquez fight. </p><p>“Mr. Seo, you’re at the top of your game now, looking at thirty wins, eleven knock-outs, and zero losses,” the reporter starts. “Where do you go when you’re standing at the top?” </p><p>“Well,” Johnny says, leaning in closer to the microphone. He doesn’t have the eyebrow piercing in here, yet. His hair is buzzed short, nothing like the soft, longer auburn that Johnny wears now. “The thing is, you’re constantly fighting to stay on top in this business, you know? My luck could turn any time. I’ve seen people lose themselves when that happens. Where do I go? I keep climbing. If I miss a step, I get back up again. Isn’t that how life oughta be?” </p><p>The crowd laughs as Johnny laughs, like it’s amusing to have this hardened boxer impart something as nebulous an answer as that, but it’s clear he’s a crowd favorite. The darling of the boxing world. </p><p>Nothing of the arrogance that other boxers of his calibre showed. Confidence, yes, but never the arrogance or bull-headedness that other men who were his contemporaries liked to exhibit. Never over-the-top with his riches. Never one to goad more than what was allowed in the pre-fight weigh-ins and in the ring. </p><p>A good, clean fighter. </p><p>The antithesis of who Mark used to be, fighting for his life and a couple hundred bucks in shitty back alleys with bare knuckles. He had been nineteen, angry, aimless. His father had walked out on them at the start of the year and all he knew was blind rage, mourning a future he thought he was entitled to, but could no longer have—not when his mother was about to give birth on her own, not on her income, not when the bastard had pulled out whatever money they’d set aside for Mark’s college fund to start a new life with a woman barely Mark’s age across the country. </p><p> In every man he went up against, he saw his father, and he took it out on every poor sucker who crossed his way, even if they were twice his body size. Even if he’d end up on the concrete, kicking out to get back up again, the bones of his hand shifting with every haphazard blow to a cheekbone, a collarbone, a rib, someone’s balls. </p><p>Johnny’s only four years older than Mark is but he feels worlds apart, and it’s humbling, because even when Johnny fell from grace thanks to his injury, nothing changed about the man he was beneath the softened muscles, the thin layer of soft fat where there once was just corded, defined muscle. He was still good. And being around him made Mark want to be good, too.</p><p>-</p><p>Mark hates jumping rope, mainly because he isn’t great at it, but he knows that it’s necessary for keeping his pace, his focus, his heart rate up and steady, so he works at it when Yuta hands him the speed rope, and hopes against hope that somehow he’ll be able to get to Mayweather’s level of effortless trickery just by sheer force of will. </p><p>It doesn’t help that his shift at the cafe last night had been hell since there had been a party of maybe twelve college students who kept ordering things with increasingly ridiculous specifications, like pizza with no cheese. He’d been on his feet the entire time.</p><p>It’s a warm day, and they’ve popped open the windows to the gym to let air circulate, all the big metal fans situated in the corners of the room working extra-hard to let the hot air dissipate. </p><p>They’re a week and a half away from the fight, and Mark’s already hit the weight for his weigh in. He just needs to keep it up, so he makes sure to take the extra servings of food that Johnny offers them whenever the people in the gym decide to order food in. </p><p>Mark’s in the middle of trying to master double-unders when he catches the reflection of a newcomer through the gym’s blue doors. He trips on the rope and knocks into the mirror before he’s righting himself and rushing over, because Moon Taeil is here. </p><p>“Ooof, holy shit, Mark Lee,” Taeil says, taking Mark by the shoulders and giving him a once-over just as Johnny steps out of his office. “And Johnny Seo. Come here,” Taeil says, stepping back just as Johny engulfs him in a massive hug that covers Taeil’s entire head. </p><p>“Oh my God, it’s like seeing a ghost,” Johnny says, pulling back and thumping Taeil on the shoulder hard enough to knock him unsteady. “What brings you here?” </p><p>Taeil glances at Mark and claps him on the arm. “Good to see you’re keeping him out of trouble,” Taeil says. </p><p>“Ah, man, come on, I’m not that bad,” Mark says, rubbing the sweat from the back of his neck in embarrassment. </p><p>“Sure, whatever you say, Lee,” Taeil says. “I heard that Mark was here, and I just needed to see it for myself. Two of my proteges, etcetera etcetera.” Taeil waves his hand around, and Mark can see him beaming at his old trainer. “But really, I just wanted to see how you guys were doing. I was in this part of town and I saw the sign outside and it just clicked, you know?” </p><p>“Well, whatever it is that brought you here, I’m glad for it,” Johnny says. “Hold up, let me introduce you to the team.”</p><p>Mark watches Johnny parade Taeil around the gym, people coming up to shake Taeil’s hand and talk to him while he hangs back. This is Johnny’s turf. He doesn’t need Mark following them around like a puppy just because he knows Taeil, too. </p><p>They eventually make their way back to Johnny’s office, and Taeil gestures for Mark to join them so Mark follows in after they get settled. The air conditioning in Johnny’s office is a nice respite from the near-stifling heat of the afternoon sun peeking in through the windows. </p><p>“Taeil, man, why don’t you come work for me again? You don’t have to train me, you can train the other people who come through here,” Johnny says, even though Mark knows that he isn’t looking for new trainers right now. </p><p>“No can do, Johnny,” Taeil says, leaning back. “I’m usually all these punk kids have got. Isn’t that right, Mark?” </p><p>Mark flushes, and does his best not to curl in on himself. The look that Johnny has directed at Mark is… curious. Like he wants to know what’s going on in Mark’s head. </p><p>“Ah, haha yeah, dude,” Mark replies, thinking about all the times Taeil had applied globs of petroleum jelly to Mark’s open cuts, all the times that Taeil had told him he needed to put more pressure with his elbows, needed to steady his hand better. “I probably would have died if it hadn’t been for him.” </p><p>“Yeah, me too,” Johnny says, looking at Taeil seriously. “Hey, give me your number, yeah? I tried calling you a bunch of times and it said your number was out of service. And you don’t believe in Facebook, what the fuck, man?” </p><p>Taeil just laughs, and takes the phone Johnny hands over to him. “No way am I giving any government my details just so they can track me, Johnny. My life is more peaceful off the grid.” </p><p>Mark snorts under his breath, but can’t fault Taeil’s logic there. </p><p>“That fight I told you about, is that what you’re training for?” Taeil asks him when he hands Johnny his phone back. </p><p>“Yeah, it’s coming up.”</p><p>“How’re you feeling?” Taeil asks. </p><p>Mark bites his lip. “I’m feeling good about it.” He nods, stiffening his resolve. “Yeah, I’m feeling good about it.” </p><p>Taeil smiles at him, pats him twice on the arm, and jumps up. </p><p>“Good. I’m betting good money on you, so you can’t let me down, alright?” Taeil says brightly. “See you Johnny, see you, punk. You take care of each other.” </p><p>And like that, Taeil’s gone. </p><p>Mark feels like a hurricane just came in and bid farewell, and Johnny laughs, this loud, incredulous huff. “I don’t see the man for years and he comes waltzing in like some sage fucking mentor and then leaves,” Johnny says in disbelief. “What the fuck?”</p><p>“Was he this dramatic when you still trained under him?” Mark asks, and Johnny shakes his head, clearly amused. </p><p>“He liked to pretend he was mysterious, like a Korean Mister Miyagi,” Johnny says. “I still learned a lot from him though, so I’m not gonna knock it.” </p><p>Mark nods, laughing under his breath. </p><p>“Yeah, I did too,” Mark replies. “Guess we’ll just let his Miyagi bit slide.”</p><p>-</p><p>“Hey, Mark,” Johnny’s voice interrupts Mark’s flow while he works the speed bag. The lights are all still on, but the clock by the timer shines 8:22 in big red numbers. The speed bag stills, coming to a stop as Mark pulls himself out of his head and turns his focus on Johnny. “It’s late, man. Let’s close up. Your fight’s next week. You gotta rest.” </p><p>Mark doesn’t want to rest. He’d planned on staying here till late, but Johnny seems to be waiting for him, and if Mark’s learned anything from the time he’s been at Seo Gym, it’s that Johnny’s pretty stubborn about making sure people training here get enough rest, and pretty stubborn about making sure he’s listened to when it comes to these things.</p><p>“Okay, alright,” Mark huffs, shaking his tired arms out, turning his neck side to side as he approaches the bench with his gym bag, pulling a towel out. His hand wraps are still on, but without a word, Johnny takes his hands, pulling off the Velcro from around his wrists, and looking at Mark to step back, which Mark does, watching the sweaty cloth unravel from around his palms, from in between his knuckles. </p><p>The wraps fall to the ground quietly, and Johnny takes Mark’s hands to inspect them under the glow of the white light overhead. </p><p>Mark’s knuckles have calloused over, and Johnny runs a thumb over them on Mark’s right hand, then catches his gaze. </p><p>“Yuta’s done well in training you,” Johnny murmurs. “But you’ve done even better at letting yourself be trained.” </p><p>Mark nods, averting his gaze, just as Johnny drops Mark’s hands, and clears his throat. </p><p>“Ah, thanks,” Mark says. </p><p>Mark watches Johnny swallow, and step back. </p><p>“Are you in a hurry? Like, do you have somewhere to be after this?” Johnny asks. </p><p>“Uh, n-not really? I was just gonna grab dinner around the corner and then like, walk home.” </p><p>“Okay, okay cool, just—just give me a really quick second, I’ve gotta get something, hold on,” Johnny says, backing away like Mark’s about to disappear, and then sprints up the spiral stairs leading up to his apartment. </p><p>Mark is completely bewildered by this, but he tries to not question it too much, so he bends down to pick his wraps up and takes a seat on the bench, bunching them up and shoving them into his gym bag. He pulls his sweat soaked shirt off and pulls a clean one out, wiping himself down with his towel and putting his shirt on just as he hears Johnny running back down the steps. He’s standing in front of Mark by the time Mark manages to get his head through the shirt, and Mark’s frozen in his movements. </p><p>Johnny has a pair of boxing gloves—a red pair of Everlasts that look like they’ve barely been used, but are clearly broken in enough that they won’t be stiff when they’re put on.  </p><p>“What—” Mark starts, before Johnny says, “Your gloves are starting to come apart. You need decent ones that won’t give out. They’re no Cleto Reyes ones, but Everlast’s never let me down. I’ve been trying to break them in for you, but you can train with these this week. See if you like how they feel.”</p><p>Mark slumps, bowled over by the weight of this moment.</p><p>“Johnny, this is too much, man,” Mark says while Johnny brings them in closer. </p><p>“Please, please take them,” Johnny says, looking at a spot behind Mark. He takes a breath. “You’re a phenomenal fighter, Mark. You deserve to have a good pair of gloves to fight with.” </p><p>Mark knows the price of these things, and this didn’t come cheap. There’s a reason why he’s been using Taeil’s old ratty pair this entire time. He takes them in his hands, and they’re a good weight. Sturdy. Just the right size for his weight division. Mark has long learned to keep from recoiling in shame that he can’t afford things that other people can. Donghyuck’s gear is all top of the line, and Jaehyun is like, <em>old money </em>rich. Other people just have a harder time than others. He’s not above asking for help. Not anymore, anyway. Being strapped for cash has a way of blunting one’s pride.</p><p>“Thank you,” Mark says, and he tries to keep the emotion from his voice, tries to swallow it down, but it’s hard. Hard when Mark’s been trying and failing to keep his little crush at bay. Hard when sometimes Mark will catch Johnny staring and hastily looking away. Hard when there’s a small sliver of hope that lodges itself in his solar plexus everytime he thinks that there’s even a remote chance that maybe Johnny’s been looking, too. </p><p>But the moment breaks when Johnny throws a light jab to Mark’s shoulder, clears his throat, and says, “No big deal, dude. You’re representing Seo Gym. It’s not like we’ve got sponsors lining up right now, but I can see it, you know?” </p><p>It’s times like these when Mark second-guesses himself, thinks he’s read the room wrong, but he tamps down on the embarrassment. They’re just gloves, not a love confession. Johnny’s right—it would be pitiful for him to step into the ring next week with gloves that don’t even have their original laces in anymore. </p><p>“Yeah,” Mark says. “Thank you still.” He holds the gloves close to his chest before reaching into his bag to move shit around and make space for the new gloves. He rises, and says, “I’m gonna like, head out now.” </p><p>He knows he’s being stilted, knows he’s making things a little awkward, but he’s recovering from the way his heart feels a bit like a deflated balloon. He throws one more glance at Johnny over his shoulder, smiling with his hand raised to say goodbye when Johnny says, “Hold on!”</p><p>Mark turns around, his eyebrow raised a bit. “Yeah?”</p><p>Johnny has both his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders slumped over a bit. He slouches too much, Mark thinks. He didn’t used to, not in the videos Mark’s seen. </p><p>“I, uh—I know this is kind of… strange but,” Johnny brings a hand to the back of his neck before he sighs an irritated noise, and straightens his back out. “Do you maybe wanna stay for dinner? I make a pretty mean chilli but I’ve got a couple of pork chops I’ve got defrosting too if you’d rather have that?” </p><p>Mark’s heart jacks up doubletime, and he can see that Johnny’s nervous, but Mark can only gape. Dinner? Johnny’s inviting Mark upstairs to stay for dinner? To his apartment? </p><p>The seconds tick by, and Johnny shifts his weight on his feet, his hand running through his hair. “Sorry, nevermind, that was—”</p><p>“Yeah, okay,” Mark says before Johnny can finish his sentence, before Mark can change his mind. “Sure. I’ll uh, I’ll stay for dinner.”</p><p>Johnny beams at him, and then coughs. “Uh, okay! Cool. Cool, just—” Johnny tilts his head to the general direction of the spiral staircase. “This way.”</p><p>-</p><p>Johnny’s apartment is twice the size of Mark’s, with an open floor plan that’s filled with a mishmash of different furniture that don’t look like they should make sense together, but do. Johnny’s couch, the one Mark is seated on right now, is an electric blue, but the loveseat adjacent to it is neon orange. </p><p>The entire room is filled with color, some spots more muted to offset the brighter pieces that Johnny’s filled his space with. The wall directly opposite Mark has a floor to ceiling glass shelving with Johnny’s old boxing shorts, several belts, some trophies. Johnny’s jacket that he was supposed to wear to the Olympics, the SEO 29 on the back pressed between two planes of glass. </p><p>The coffee table in front of Mark has stacks and stacks of art books, massive tomes with black and white photography, a couple of biographies that look well-loved. </p><p>Johnny’s apartment appears deceptively pricey, but when Mark looks closer, he can tell that many of the things that fill this room are things that look shiny and new exactly because they’re clearly tended to with love. The PlayStation is an older model, similar to Johnny’s laptop. The record player looks refurbished, and the speakers are old but seem reliable, if the music filtering through softly is anything to go by.</p><p>From the kitchen, Johnny calls out, “Hey, do you have any food allergies or anything?” </p><p>Mark smiles to himself at the consideration. “No, but like, sometimes my gut’s weird about dairy, so maybe nothing with that if that’s okay?” </p><p>“For sure,” Johnny replies. “Yo, make yourself at home, alright? You can power up the PlayStation if you want, and I’ve got Netflix if you’d rather watch something.” </p><p>Mark walks over to the kitchen instead, leaning on the counter with his hip. “I can help you like, chop stuff?” </p><p>Johnny flaps his hand in Mark’s general direction. “I can make this chilli with my eyes closed. You’re my guest, so just chill. Do you want anything to drink? I’ve got beer, soda, juice here.”</p><p>Mark raises his eyebrow, bemused. “You’re really offering me beer and sugar drinks before my fight?” </p><p>Johnny pulls a handful of chillies out of his refrigerator, and taps his temple while looking at Mark. “I was testing you, Anakin.” </p><p>“Oh, so you’re Obi-wan here, is that what you’re saying?” Mark laughs, doubling over when Johnny’s face falls. </p><p>“Okay, no scratch that,” Johnny grumbles. “I’m not <em>that </em>much older than you.” </p><p>Mark laughs and tells Johnny he gets it. He doesn’t like being presumptuous, but he isn’t big on false modesty, either. He wants to believe that Johnny pointing that out means that he’s interested enough in Mark to be a little defensive about the gap in their ages. </p><p>Johnny makes them baked potatoes and chili con carne with a serving of dirty rice, and the whole apartment is filled with the hearty scent of it. He takes his with sour cream and cheese, and gives Mark a version without the toppings, and they spend the next two hours at the rectangular dining table talking throughout their meal. </p><p>Johnny makes Mark laugh harder than he has in months, to the point where he’s doubling over and clutching his belly when Johnny tells him the story of how he’d nearly shat his pants during his first boxing match. </p><p>“I mean you should have seen him, you know? Dude was six foot one like me, this fucking fifteen year old dude built like a machine. He was four years younger and I was terrified of him!” Johnny exclaims. “I for real was like, ‘Yo, Lucas, go easy on me, hey?’” and then he opens his mouth and he’s the sweetest fucking kid ever.” </p><p>The name doesn’t ring any bells for Mark. “Did Lucas go pro?” </p><p>Johnny cuts a portion of his potato and scoops up a serving of his chili, chewing thoughtfully before answering with his mouth half-full, “Nah. He did the amateur thing for a while but last I heard, he went off to Hong Kong to become a model. Dude was like, gorgeous. Agents probably scouted him before he could fuck his face up.” Johnny interrupts himself, and goes, “Oh, you’ll know him actually! He goes by Yukhei nowadays since he started his career.” </p><p>Johnny taps a couple letters onto his screen and shows Mark a Burberry spread with an admittedly beautiful man dressed in a white suit, looking into the camera while holding a bottle of perfume. Mark whistles, long and low. “Oh yeah, for sure. Can’t have a broken nose fucking up a face like that holy shit.” </p><p>He hands Johnny his phone back, and prepares to dig into his third serving of chili when his own phone rings. Fuck, he’d forgotten to tell his mom he’d be home late. </p><p>He scrambles to answer it lest he make her worry. He excuses himself from the table to take the call. </p><p>“Hey mom, sorry, I forgot to let you know I’d be home late,” Mark says. </p><p>“Oh, that’s alright, I just wanted to make sure you’d eaten? There’s food in the oven but if you’ve eaten I’m just gonna keep it in the fridge.”</p><p>“I’m good, I’m actually in the middle of dinner still,” Mark says, and before he can decide otherwise, he adds, “Johnny invited me to dinner so I figured I’d say yes.” </p><p>“Oh, oh, alright honey, take care,” she says, and ends the call. </p><p>He pockets his phone and makes himself comfortable again on the seat next to Johnny, muttering a quick apology that Johnny waves away with a, “Dude, you’re all good.” </p><p>They finish off the remainder of the food, and Mark feels a little like a ball, he’s so full. They migrate to the couch and Johnny asks him about his mom, about Chenle, and in turn, Johnny tells Mark about his parents, about his undergrad and his degree in Creative Writing when he realized that boxing was no longer in the cards for him. </p><p>Johnny makes conversation feel effortless, and Mark finds himself wanting more and more to keep peeling back the layers. He’s spent enough time watching videos of Johnny the boxer. Here, in the flesh, he gets to know Johnny as everything outside of the titles and long-gone career. </p><p>Johnny calls Mark an Uber when they both realize that it’s already nearing midnight, and he waits with Mark outside the building while he tracks the movement on his phone. </p><p>“Hey Johnny,” Mark says, scuffing his Chucks on the ground, not quite sure where to look. The street is lit, and there are a few cars that pass by, but it’s mostly quiet. </p><p>“Yeah?” Johnny says absentmindedly. </p><p>“Thanks for tonight,” Mark replies, levelling him with a steady gaze. “I had a lot of fun, yo, and your cooking is bomb.” </p><p>Johnny smiles at him warmly, and Mark wonders if this is it, if this is the moment where they’ll step together and kiss. He holds his breath while Johnny looks at him, and Mark swears he sees Johnny’s eyes flick to his lips, but Johnny seems to snap out of it just as the Uber pulls up at the curb, and once again, the moment is lost. </p><p>Still, Mark daps him, and then gets into the back seat. “See you, Johnny.”</p><p>“See you, Mark,” Johnny says, closing the door for him. </p><p>When Mark looks back through the rear window, Johnny stands on the curb until the car makes a turn. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/johnyumark/status/1330971766613630976">twitter.</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Fight Day</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mark remembers his first fight, all those years ago when some smarmy man had seen him get into a brawl in some alleyway and said, “Hey kid, how about you make some money doing that?” </p><p>He remembers being scrawny and scared shitless, facing off against a man two inches shorter than him. All Mark had had was his bare knuckles and the shirt on his back when he’d walked into the seedy club filled with the smell of smoke and stale piss and body odor and rust, these bodies packed together while men made a clearing in the center of the room.</p><p>Nothing but concrete floor and too-harsh overhead lighting. He’d been hit with a wall of sounds—loud cheering and men placing bets, yelling as the fights went on. </p><p>Mark had been shoved into the middle of the ring confused, and overwhelmed, but the man opposite him had laughed in his face, called him weak, and Mark only saw red, red, red. </p><p>Red, like his knuckles that had swollen up so badly after making contact with the man’s cheeks over and over until Beard McGraw had collapsed onto the floor, knocked out from Mark’s inexplicable strength. </p><p>Red, like the blood that had dripped from his nose onto the five one hundred dollar bills that he held crushed in his fist after winning his first ever fight. </p><p>Red, like his eyes when he’d checked in the mirror as he’d snuck back into the apartment, his mother fast asleep. </p><p>“Hey, you with me?” Yuta asks, his brows furrowed as crouches in front of Mark. </p><p>Mark snaps out of his recollection, brought back into the present by Yuta cuffing him lightly on the knee. </p><p>“Y-yeah, sorry, I’m here,” Mark says, finally seeing what’s in Yuta’s hands. </p><p>“So we’ll get you there for the weigh in, and then you’re chowing down on these eggs and oats. None of that greasy burger shit,” Yuta says, gesturing to the lunch box he has in his hands. “Johnny made this special. I offered to cook but he told me he wasn’t gonna risk you getting food poisoning, which like, honestly valid,” he laughs. “I’m not great in the kitchen.” </p><p>Mark glances over at Johnny who’s still in his office, frowning at his laptop, bags under his eyes. He wonders what time Johnny woke up to make breakfast for Mark, since it’s 6:15 in the morning right now, and Mark flushes inwardly with gratitude. They’re waiting for Donghyuck who should arrive in ten minutes. He’d offered a ride and none of them were about to turn down the chance to turn up at a fight in a Rolls fucking Royce. </p><p>“I’ll thank him later,” Mark mutters, taking the lunch box and putting it inside his bag, grateful that it seems like one of those fancy air-tight ones so he doesn’t have to worry about spilling shit. </p><p>“It’s gonna be a long-ass day, my dude,” Yuta says, straightening up and clapping Mark on the shoulder. “But you knew this coming in.” </p><p>“Yeah, I’m ready for it,” Mark replies, looking up and holding his hand out for Yuta’s fist to bump it. </p><p>His phone rings, and Donghyuck tells him he’s nearby, so Mark rises from the bench, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder. </p><p>“Hyuck just called, says he’s near,” Mark calls out to Johnny, who looks up, nods, and shuts his laptop before shoving it hastily into his backpack. Even at the match, Johnny’s still going to be working. Mark had told him he hadn’t needed to come, but Johnny had shot him down almost immediately. </p><p>“And miss the debut of Seo Gym’s first pro-fighter? I think the fuck not, Markie,” Johnny had said. </p><p>The three of them make their way out of the gym and down the hallway, Johnny locking up behind them. Yuta has his arm slung around Mark’s shoulders, giving him reminders based on the videos he’d reviewed of Mark last night, coaching him to anticipate the kinds of fighters he’s meeting today. </p><p>It isn’t lost on Mark just how different this pre-fight pep talk feels from the fights he’s used to. He’d always come into his fights alone after having scarfed down some shitty beer or a cheap burger before he’d find himself jostled in the ring of bodies. No one had ever prepared a meal for him specifically with the intention of making sure Mark got enough protein to burn through the first couple of rounds.</p><p>He’d built a small following underground, people who cheered him on whenever he’d pull his <em>Fight Club</em> shit and feel his knuckles deal damage to the cartilage of someone’s nose or dig into someone’s gut, but he’d never had people willingly come together with the intention of being there to support him. As it is, Donghyuck’s one of the many people who have offered to help Mark out for today’s fights. </p><p>“Hey, chief,” Donghyuck says, leaning against the sleek black car before holding his hand out to slap Johnny's palm, side-stepping each other as they start their handshake, this little jig-hop-slide thing that they do whenever they see each other. </p><p>They’re not quite in secret handshake territory yet, but Donghyuck does grab Mark by the hand to dap him, muttering, “Yo, Canada,” his hand firmly patting Mark’s back twice before Mark steps away. “Are you ready to murder these—”</p><p>“Donghyuck,” Johnny says warningly while Yuta laughs and gets into the back seat. </p><p>“Sorry, sorry,” Donghyuck says, holding both hands up in surrender. “Are you ready to kick ass?”</p><p>Mark laughs, shoving Donghyuck a little towards the door to the front seat. “I’m always ready.”</p><p>“Cocky, nice,” Donghyuck says, and then gets into the car, Mark following suit. </p><p>Yuta whistles, seated by the window and looking around at the interiors of the car—the leather seats, the spacious leg-room, the tinted windows. “God, this is nice,” he remarks. “Thanks for the ride, Hyuck.”</p><p>“Anytime, for real,” Donghyuck says, throwing them a smile over his shoulder before settling back in the seat. Mark figures he’s closing his eyes for some shut-eye. </p><p>The rest of them sort of do the same, Yuta curling up into the corner to rest his head against the window, but on Mark’s right, Johnny is wide awake, his hands resting on his knees, squeezing a little every couple of minutes. </p><p>“I think you’re more nervous than I am,” Mark says softly, catching Johnny’s attention from where he’d been staring out the window. Johnny’s eyes snap back to his, and then he huffs out a small laugh. </p><p>“Honestly, yeah, I think so too,” Johnny says. “I mean, I haven’t been to an actual fight in a long time, and I think my body’s sort of remembering what it was like for me when I’d be heading into one. Like it misses it.” Johnny pauses, and then levels Mark with a smile. “But it’s mostly nerves for you.”</p><p>“Why?” Mark asks, nudging Johnny’s shoulder with his own. “Where’d your vote of confidence go?” </p><p>“It’s there, very firmly in your corner,” Johnny says. “Just. You know. We both know every worst case scenario when we step into a ring.”</p><p>It’s clipped but honest. A sliver of vulnerability that Johnny peels back and shows Mark. </p><p>“But then again, I forget you’re Wolverine,” Johnny teases, and Mark sees him visibly relax. It’s nice to know that he’s got Johnny on his side, nice to know that whatever jittery sort of crush-hero worship thing he used to have on the man has grown into something that is comfortable, grateful to just spend time in Johnny’s company. </p><p>Even if Mark still wants to climb him like a tree. </p><p>Mark claps him on the knee twice, and says, “I’ve got this, chief.” </p><p>-</p><p>Mark weighs in at 63.1 kilograms, putting him nicely in the higher border for the light welterweight class now that he’s built so much muscle already, and once he’s stepped off the scale, he’s whisked away by Yuta and Donghyuck to get to the cluster of chairs that Mark’s camp is seated at. </p><p>“All good?” Johnny asks, looking up from his laptop when they arrive. </p><p>“All good,” Yuta says. “Now chow down on your breakfast, Markie. You need it.” </p><p>They’ve got coolers of food and drink with them, bottles of Pocari Sweat and water and Johnny’s horrible stash of Monster energy drinks for himself. Mark settles next to Johnny at the table with the lunch box he’d prepared for Mark, and when Mark opens it up, he sees that its three layers are filled with everything he needs: a serving of oats and kiwi and mango, an entire level of scrambled eggs with cheese and what looks like turkey slices, and the last tier that has pita and hummus. </p><p>It’s not lost on Mark that Johnny’s made a meal for him more than once now, not including the coffee he’s handed Mark on most mornings since Mark’s come to the gym, and he does his best to keep his embarrassing crush under control. </p><p>“Thank you for this,” Mark says quietly, despite the roaring noise of the convention center being filled with spectators and fighters. </p><p>Johnny doesn’t even look at Mark, his eyes glued to whatever it is Johnny’s writing on screen, but he’s smiling anyway. </p><p>“It’s nothing, dude,” Johnny says, even when it’s clear to them both that it’s not just nothing. </p><p>Mark’s first fight is in four hours yet, and they really are in for a long, long day. The fights are expected to go all the way past midnight, and they’d been told to anticipate that. It’s a good thing they’d managed to snag a corner of the room that had chairs and the long table so they’re at least comfortable during the wait. Mark feels a little bad that there’s so much lag time where the others have to wait, but when he’d mentioned that, Donghyuck had just told him to shut up and got back to his phone game. </p><p>The convention hall is filled with six different rings for the matches, and Mark scans the room for any familiar faces when Jeno and Jaehyun arrive with arms full of what look like takeaway. </p><p>“Meals for the gods!” Jeno says, setting them next to Johnny’s laptop before everyone exchanges greetings. </p><p>“Hey, Markie,” Jaehyun says before his boyfriend takes a seat next to him and hands him a wrapped burrito. </p><p>“How are you feeling?” Jeno asks while he pops a fry in his mouth. Jaehyun busies himself with what looks like the gruelling task of removing onions from Jeno’s tacos. </p><p>“Spiteful, right now,” Mark laughs, nodding at all of the food he isn’t allowed to eat right now that they’re parading in front of him. </p><p>“Be strong, bro, this is a test of mettle,” Jaehyun replies, patting Mark patronizingly on the arm. Johnny just snorts under his breath. </p><p>Mark rolls his eyes, opting to tuck into the breakfast Johnny had made for him before he has to stifle the moan at how fluffy the scrambled eggs are. </p><p>“Yo,” Mark says, genuinely shocked at how good something so simple tastes. “Dude, these are like, really fucking good.”</p><p>Johnny’s fingers pause over his keyboard as he glances at Mark, a tiny smile on his lips. “Yeah? I’m glad. Nice to know my French ex-girlfriend managed to impart <em>some </em>sort of knowledge before leaving me for a designer haha.”</p><p>Mark has an image of Johnny with his arms wrapped around a pretty brunette lady teaching him how to scramble eggs, and wishes that he would grow the fuck up because this schoolyard longing is really starting to grate on him. </p><p>“Glad I’m benefitting from it, then,” Mark replies, turning back to his food and refusing to look at Johnny, who barks out a laugh before he tugs on Mark’s ear. </p><p>-</p><p>Mark’s day passes in a sort of blur after his first fight. His body moves on instinct, taking everything he’s learned from his months of training and his years of fighting to methodically decimate every opponent he’s faced against. </p><p>His name moves up in the brackets, progressing every couple of hours, until finally, a little past midnight, Mark sees the final tier: <em>MARK LEE vs. VERNON CHWE</em>. </p><p>He’s watched Vernon fight all day, watched his name move up in the ranks as well. Ruthless, mean right hook, really fucking chill when he’s out of the ring. Mark’s gonna enjoy going up against him. </p><p>“Mark, come on!” Yuta says, calling Mark over from the massive board that shows the progression of the day’s fights, and Mark hurries back, jogging over to their table. Yuta’s already got a tablet open, and on it, a video of Vernon that looks almost like it’s a Tiktok. </p><p>“So, here’s the thing,” Yuta says as Mark huddles in close. Johnny’s set his laptop aside to listen in as well. “Vernon trains under Jihoon, and Jihoon is the meanest motherfucker this side of town—wait, he’s great, like he is a great dude, I respect him a lot—but his training is a lot more rigorous than whatever we’ve put you through here. He’s big on precision, and Vernon’s punches pack power. He’s also a fucking Southpaw.” </p><p>“Well,” Mark says, unfazed. “Good thing I’m one, too, then.” </p><p>Johnny barks out a laugh, and then slings his arm around Mark’s shoulder while he pulls back and wipes under his eyes. “God, I didn’t think I’d ever meet a cocky sonofabitch who could match me, but then you come along and say shit like that.”</p><p>Mark shrugs, riding the high of his consecutive wins, including two knockouts. “I told you the first time we met that I was a good fighter, man. You should really listen to me more.” </p><p>Johnny gives Mark an impossibly fond look, and Mark wishes, not for the first time, that he could read Johnny better, parse what this expression means and why it makes Mark’s insides so fucking fluttery all the time now. Hope is such a ridiculous thing to contain when you’re quietly pining for someone, really, but Mark shakes his head and tells himself to focus. This isn’t the time. </p><p>“Okay, okay, big shot,” Johnny laughs. </p><p>The fight begins in an hour, and Mark spends it mostly leaning back in the seat next to Johnny with his eyes closed, his headphones on, keeping his focus.</p><p>He’s trained for nearly two months for this, and every single day that he’s gone to bed with aching muscles and a steady heart, Mark has said a prayer—small, quick, sincere—to ask for help, and now he’s here. </p><p>Every person he’s faced off against today had been decisive, Mark throwing exactly the right punches to deal damage to their torso, to their head. </p><p>Not once had he seen his father’s face in any of theirs. </p><p>Mark has changed so much from who he was before he ever set foot in the Seo Gym, and it’s a maddening realization to make right before his final match of the evening, right before the fight that had been the deciding factor in Mark seeking Johnny and the team out in the first place. </p><p>He thinks about the steps that got him here, surrounded by so many of his friends from the gym where prior to, Mark had only really had his casual relationships with the people at the cafe, Mark’s best friend Jaemin having stayed in Canada instead. </p><p>Mark doesn’t feel the blind rage anymore. It’s gone, dissipated into the ether now that it’s been replaced with something richer, something more sustainable. He keeps his eyes closed and he runs through all his fights again in his head. He thinks back to Vernon’s fighting, trying to find the openings that Vernon’s opponents had missed. </p><p>In what feels like minutes, Mark feels someone shake his arm, and Mark opens his eyes. </p><p>“It’s time, Markie,” Yuta says. </p><p>“Gotta go get ‘em,” Mark replies, grinning. </p><p>-</p><p>The thing about a blow to the face is that nothing ever prepares you for it. It’s the same: the momentary stillness of motion, the ringing in your ears, before you realize that something has made contact with your cheek bone, and then you’re falling to the ground. Sometimes, there’s darkness. </p><p>Thank fuck there isn’t any right now.</p><p>Mark blinks furiously, his vision swimming as he tries to push himself off the mat. His arms are exhausted after consecutive fights, and it’s past fucking midnight. Vernon’s dealt some pretty decent body shots to counter Mark’s own, but Christ, that left hook came out of nowhere, and Mark’s being counted down, but after the third one, he’s back up, holding onto the ropes to roaring cheers and applause, and blessedly, the loud trill of the bell going off, signalling the end of round seven. </p><p>The ref helps him up, and he’s striding over to his corner of the ring, dropping onto the little stool, opening his mouth so Yuta can pull his mouth guard out and rinse the blood off, just as Johnny steps into the ring with him, immediately holding ice to Mark’s cheek. Mark’s still woozy, his body heavy, his lungs burning while he gasps for breath after breath. He can feel a cramp in his left leg starting, and he fluxes his foot at the ankle in the hopes of getting the muscle steady enough before it locks up. </p><p>“Fuck, he nearly had me there,” Mark says, breathing heavily, closing his eyes to rest his head against the padded corner.</p><p>“You’re tiring him out,” Yuta says, leaning in to wipe Mark’s face down and then slinging the towel over his shoulder before Johnny returns with the ice. “You’re doing great. It’s just that he’s the only one today bold enough to come in with a left hook as mean as a fucking wrecking ball, Jesus.” </p><p>Mark’s vision swims, the lights glaring behind Johnny’s head as Johnny cups his jaw, makes Mark look up at him. Everything fucking hurts, but he’s not ready to throw in the towel. Not now. Not ever.</p><p>“Come on, open up,” Johnny says, holding the water bottle to Mark’s mouth, to which Mark responds with laughter, feeling his second wind coming on. Johnny’s eyes widen in shock, and then soften in amusement.</p><p>“Cheeky bastard,” Johnny responds, and squeezes the water while Mark swallows, closing his eyes once again. “You keep dropping your left hand. You need to keep it up, then step off, then go in with your right, got it?” </p><p>The minute’s almost up, and Yuta only just has time to get more Vaseline on Mark’s eyebrow and cheek before Yuta's slipping the mouthguard back into his mouth, and he’s standing up again. </p><p>“Finish this,” Johnny says, his hands squeezing Mark’s shoulders. Mark nods, and gets back in the game. </p><p>He stands in front of Vernon, hopping from right foot to left, assessing what he can. Vernon’s right eye is swollen, worse now from the blow Mark had dealt in round five, and it’s sure to obscure his vision, something Mark files away as they circle each other. Mark drowns out the crowd, drowns out the fear that rises in his belly and up his esophagus. All he hears is his breathing, loud and harsh in his ears as he tracks Vernon like prey.</p><p>Mark lunges forward with two jabs in succession, both of which Vernon swerves from, but Mark is ready, coming in with a straight and right hook, causing Vernon to stumble back against the ropes. </p><p><em>Come on</em>, Mark tells himself. <em>Come on. Move faster.</em></p><p>Yuta was right. Vernon’s exhausted. He’d only had two fights go all the way to the final round today. Vernon is power, not stamina, not built to fight fighters like Mark whose breath keeps him steady. Mark pushes forward, leading with his left foot, pivoting when Vernon ducks and leans out of the way, and Mark powers through, forces his fists to make contact with Vernon’s body while Vernon holds his arms close to his torso, trying in vain to prevent Mark from dealing too much damage to his ribs.</p><p>Mark hears Vernon growl in frustration when he ducks, missing what would have been another jab to his face if he hadn’t caught the moment, and he blinks the sweat furiously from his eyes, the salt trailing down the sides of his face.</p><p>He can see where Vernon’s dropping his guard, keeping his chin tucked, left hand up the more Mark goes in with his right hand, and it all comes rushing back to him, the single-minded focus that he used to have when he’d be bare-knuckling his way through his opponents. Mark pulls in from deep inside of himself and tells himself that that money, that win is his, and his mind clears, as does his vision, stepping back and stepping aside, dancing in the ring as Vernon tries and fails to corner him. </p><p>Mark keeps pushing, and Vernon keeps fighting back, both of them desperately trying to keep the other from making contact with each other’s fists to their faces.</p><p>Mark ignores the roar of the cheering audience, honing in on the small limp that Vernon has, the way his body is bent to the right, the way his right elbow keeps dropping, and Mark lunges forward, going in with a straight-straight, jab, and two upper lefts, which makes Vernon’s movements stutter, and Mark sees it, his in.</p><p>He watches it happen like time slows to a stop, his gloved fist connecting with Vernon’s right eye and cheek as the spray of saliva and blood from his mouth leaves him, his head twisting unnaturally before his body crumples to the ground.</p><p>Mark watches as Vernon gets on his knees and falls again, blood pouring freely from the inflamed cut above his right eyebrow, and Mark knows he’s won. There’s no getting up from this, and the crowd is already on its feet while Mark waits and waits for the ten counts to be up. He stays ready, his gloves up to his face in case Vernon manages to get his hand on the ropes. </p><p>
  <em>Eight… nine… ten!</em>
</p><p>It almost doesn’t register when the referee pulls his hand up, raising it high over their heads as they declare Mark the winner, because his team is running into the ring, Yuta and Johnny and Donghyuck coming in a flurry of limbs and screaming and he’s won. </p><p>He did it. </p><p>Mark fucking did it. </p><p>“And our winner by knockout is…. Mark Lee!” The commentator shouts over the microphone, the convention hall filled with cheering as Yuta and Johnny take both his arms and drag him over to their side of the ring, Mark climbing the ropes and leaning out with his thigh pressed against the padded corner with his hands up in victory, his friends from Seo Gym going absolutely batshit from where they’re seated, and Mark feels joy that is all-encompassing, overwhelming in his relief and emotion. </p><p>He makes the sign of the cross, looks up at the ceiling to say thank you to a God he had thought no longer listened to him, and steps down while the people who surround him toss him from hug to hug. There is heat in the air, and hands in his hair, hands on his arms, hands pulling him to the center of the ring where there is a modest shiny belt with blue and red in the center waiting for him, but Mark searches in the sea of bodies to get to the one person he’s looking for. It’s all he knows he needs to do right now, and his head throbs from how desperately he wants it.</p><p>Johnny’s standing off to the side, his phone out while he no doubt takes a video of the entire scene, but Mark politely pushes through the swarm of people before he’s knocking Johnny’s phone away from in front of him, and wrapping his arms around Johnny’s neck, standing on tiptoes to catch Johnny’s lips in a kiss that startles the both of them before warmth courses through Mark’s veins as Johnny kisses him back, lips just as plush as every single one of Mark’s day dreams. </p><p>Johnny’s tongue brushes against Mark’s own and objectively he knows that they’re doing this in front of an entire fucking crowd, sure, but Mark doesn’t care, not a single bit, because Johnny’s hands are on his waist, uncaring of the sweat that’s pooled there, pulling Mark in close and closer before Johnny breaks the kiss to laugh, and then kisses him again, for good measure. </p><p>“Bold, Mark Lee,” Johnny whispers through the smile pressed against Mark’s lips. </p><p>“Told you to take a chance on me,” Mark shrugs, and then pulls away before he steps back, his cheeks straining from how hard and wide his smile is before he’s pushed to the center of the ring and jostled for the cameras. </p><p>Everything is noise around him, Yuta screaming in his ear while Mark smiles with the belt held up in his hand. This is hardly one of those pay-per-view fights, and he isn’t quite thinking of glory right now, but he’s surrounded by his friends who very quickly became family in the two short months that led up to this point, and Johnny—beautiful, brilliant boxer that he is, who looks as besotted as Mark feels. </p><p>He’d come here for the money, for the shot at something that made him feel less unmoored by everything else that had gone wrong in his life. He’d worked for this, yes, but he hadn’t realized just how much more he stood to gain until this very moment, in the middle of a ring, in the middle of the night in a convention center. </p><p>Vernon comes up to him, his eyebrow completely swollen now, his eye shut from Mark’s damage. His gloves are off, his fist out for Mark to bump with his still-gloved hand. </p><p>“You kicked my ass, man,” Vernon says, laughing under his breath. “Good fight. Mad respect.” </p><p>“Back at you, dude,” Mark replies, ignoring the flashes going off around them. </p><p>“Let’s face off again, yeah?” Vernon says, clapping Mark on the shoulder before they’re both told to stand side by side for a photo. </p><p>“Yeah, for sure,” Mark replies, and elbows Vernon in his side. They smile for the cameras.</p><p>-</p><p>The chaos doesn’t stop when they get back to Seo Gym, and Mark barely gets a chance to breathe or get a second to himself because Yeri’s called over her friends to throw an impromptu party and one of them comes bearing gifts of way more crates of beer than anyone knows what to do with. Benches are pushed up against the walls of the gym and Johnny brings his speakers down from his apartment and the next thing Mark knows, there’s an entire party where they normally sweat all over the floor doing push-ups and squats. </p><p>It’s only when Jeno and Jaehyun start grinding in the middle of it all and Donghyuck’s wolf-whistling at them while he double-fists his beers that Johnny finally, finally tilts his head to gesture them going up the spiral stairs to his place. Everyone is too distracted and too inebriated to care much what their celebrant is doing at this point. They’re all just happy to have a reason to drink too much and not have to pay for it with training hungover the next day.</p><p>Johnny leads Mark by the hand, and Mark follows in a sort of trance, the low yellow light making Johnny’s butt look even nicer, though Mark’s never been at eye-level with it until now. The music and the raucous laughter is muted when they reach the top of the stairs, and Mark should have expected it, but it still catches him off-guard when he feels Johnny tug him close, pressing him against the rough exposed brick, though it’s not like Mark minds. </p><p>“Hey,” Johnny whispers, right hand on Mark’s hip, left forearm bent by Mark’s head. </p><p>“Hey yourself,” Mark replies, his heart racing. This is the first time they’re alone since Mark’s win, since Mark decided to throw caution to the wind and finally take all the victories that he thought were within arm’s reach for him. </p><p>“So uh,” Johnny stars, his thumb rubbing circles on Mark’s hipbone, right above the elastic of his sweats and boxer briefs. “Is this—is this okay? Or was earlier one of those like… heat of the moment kind of things?” </p><p>Mark studies Johnny’s face, sees the concern there in the fine lines between his eyebrows, the upside down of his lips. </p><p>“I think—” Mark swallows, his lips darting out to wet his parched lips. “I think we both know this is more than okay.” </p><p>Johnny smiles, slow and small and sweet, and rests his forehead on Mark’s, sighing softly. </p><p>“I just wanted to be sure, you know?” Johnny says. “This is kinda scary.” He brings a hand to cup Mark’s jaw, and Mark leans into it, the heat of Johnny’s palm on his cheek. “I like you so much.” </p><p>It’s kind of cute, Mark thinks to himself, that they’re two men who spend their time pounding flesh into other men’s flesh, and yet here they are, wound up and skittish over this—over kisses and quietly uttered confessions. </p><p>“I like you too, chief,” Mark says, smiling and tilting his chin up so he can look at Johnny directly. “I think I made that clear.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Johnny laughs. “We’ve got video footage of it and everything.” </p><p>“Mmm, you into that, John Seo?” Mark says, tugging Johnny in close at the hips, making Johnny punch out a laugh that comes straight from his chest before he curses and says, “Christ, you’re gonna be the death of me, huh?” </p><p>It’s the first time in Mark’s life that he feels this whole, like the pieces have fallen into place once and for all, and for good, or at least for the time being. Johnny leans in to slide his lips over Mark’s own, and Mark thinks about how he’d come here with nothing but the singular determination to find somewhere safe for himself after hitting rock bottom. Sure, it helps that he’s going home three thousand dollars richer, but more than that, he’s <em>happy,</em> something that he’d felt eluded him for so long. </p><p>He thinks he could do this, keep doing all of this: training at Seo Gym, kissing Johnny, letting people like Donghyuck and Jaehyun in, coming home to his mom and Chenle knowing that he’s doing something that he’s really fucking good at, that he really fucking loves. He feels like his entire life has accelerated to get him here, bracketed against the wall above the gym that’s his new home. Finally, he gets a chance to slow down.</p><p>“Hey, you with me?” Johnny asks, plush lips pressing into his cheek. </p><p>Mark smiles, and hopes Johnny can feel it. </p><p>“Yeah, Johnny, I’m with you.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And we're here folks, at the end of this story! Thank you so much for reading it if you've gotten to this point. I thought this story up when Punch first dropped, and now it's finally, finally complete. It's much softer than I intended it to be, and it's probably not the like... intense fight story that some of you might have expected especially since it's been so long since the last chapter update, but real life got in the way so this was the best I could do. I'm still quite happy with it, even if it's not the initial vision I'd had for her. </p><p>Find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/johnyumark/status/1330971766613630976">twitter.</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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